


Stories the Fat Controller Tells

by Dryad



Series: Night Moves [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gen, Omega Variant, This Part is PG13, casefile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 20:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2241927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every young boy wanted for adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories the Fat Controller Tells

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the lovely Tessismad - who did her best! I am a contrary creature, however, so don't go blaming her for my mistakes as they are, of course, all mine.

Nothing happened over the next twenty-four hours. Sherlock became increasingly irritable, although he also insisted he cared not one whit about his brother's health or whereabouts. He was either furiously typing on his laptop, playing violent, complicated rhythms on his violin, or lying on the sofa in an apparent stupor. How he could do that while wearing two or three nicotine patches was beyond John's comprehension.

John felt restless, too. His sleep was poor, filled with bad dreams and old pain, memories of events in Afghanistan in which he had never taken part. He was torn between stuffing his gob, now that he had the opportunity to eat whatever and whenever he wanted, and the constant itch to be on the move. Two days off, he reminded himself, no wonder he felt so antsy. He resumed his usual regime, minus the stationary running.

After his calisthenics, pushups, and a few yoga poses Cat had showed him, John showered, dressed, and returned downstairs with nothing to do. Watching television seemed disrespectful, so he checked out Sherlock's selection of books, settling on Jack London's _The Sea Wolf_.

He supposed he ought not be surprised at the leather-bound adventure novels on the shelves, the classic ripping yarns of his childhood. He felt Sherlock should somehow be above all that. Ridiculous, but there it was. Come to think of it, Thaddeus had had a similar collection though with a rather more salacious theme. _Fanny Hill, Lady Chatterly's Lover, A Ramble in St. James' Park_ , even a selection of bawdy poems by Rabbie Burns. There were other works which had quite shocked John, who was hardly a prude. He may have been in the Army, his nickname one he chose not bandy about - though neither was he ashamed of it - and even so…who expected such crudely written material to come out of the Nineteenth Century? 

Every young boy wanted for adventure. John certainly had, and had reveled in it for awhile. He let _The Sea Wolf_ rest in his lap, staring sightlessly across the room. What did he want to do for the rest of his life? Dare he even think of that right now? No, the answer was no. Not the right time, not the right place. With perfect timing, Sherlock's mobile rang. For a moment neither of them moved, then Sherlock launched himself off of the sofa, grabbing the phone and stabbing at it with one finger.

"Yes?"

John put his book on the arm of the chair, got up and stretched. Keeping quiet, he put on his shoes and jacket and waited.

"The old docklands - are you sure?" Sherlock frowned, listening hard.

No, John did not like the sound of that. He had been there, once, with the newly minted Lieutenant Mickey O'Reilly, visiting Mickey's sick Nan. The place had been a throwback to an earlier time, chock-a-block with Victorian two up, two down terraces. In some spots they had been razed, new tower blocks sprung out of the ground like genetically modified housing stock. They had arrived in the late afternoon, just in time for John to note the derelict warehouses as they were lit by the setting sun, as well as the odd street fire. God only knew who had started those, kids, he presumed, or the homeless. The scent of the sea was strong, mixed with dead fish, diesel fumes from river traffic and exhaust from old buses and trains. Yet, for all that the estate was on the bottom end of the pecking order, the neighborhood was lively, with kids playing in the streets and grandparents keeping watch through windows with white net curtains.

Then night had fallen and oh, the neighborhood became something else entirely. John had been more than familiar with the feeling of being watched, he could tell by the closed expression on Mickey's face that he felt the same way. Which made John extra nervous, because this was Mickey's home territory, not some random neighborhood in Sangin City, for fucks sake.

So things probably had not gotten any better during the interim. John trotted upstairs and retrieved the gun, loaded it. "By the way," he muttered softly at the universe and his unknown benefactor, tucking the gun into the back of his trousers. "Next time a shoulder holster, yeah? Don't fancy shooting my bollocks off."

He went back downstairs, just in time to see Sherlock putting on his dramatic coat. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock did a double take, as if he had - once again - completely forgotten John's presence. "'We' are not going anywhere. You're staying here. I'll need someone to man the phone if anyone calls."

"I don't have a phone," answered John. Watched with delight as Sherlock's face morphed from irritation to incredulity. "Thaddeus deemed it unnecessary."

"People are idiots. Come on, then."

John followed hot on Sherlock's heels, eager to get outside of the cage of the flat and into the night, like an animal. 

No, like a _predator_.

Unexpectedly, they took the Tube. John had half expected a car with tinted windows to be waiting for them. The journey was long, every now and again Sherlock surprising their fellow passengers with sudden pronouncements and unsolicited advice. Made John smile, though, especially when an OAP burst into laughter at Sherlock's deduction of his status as a lottery winner. 

Sherlock sniffed, but leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, "Check the numbers when you get home. I think you'll find I'm right."

"Rightoh," said the gent, hitting the door release on the carriage. He nodded at John, his eyes teary with humour. "Better keep an eye on that one, boyo."

"I plan to," replied John, keeping one hand on the door to make sure the man made it out without fuss. Two canes, Christ. Then again, he would use two canes instead of a Zimmer frame too, if he had the choice. And speaking of canes - he frowned. Where the hell had he put his? When was the last time he had even used it? He was pretty sure it had been in Brighton…the morning he had left? No - before then. Oh, his last time with Ella. The limp had been pretty bad, and of course that night - . Maybe it was back at the flat. 

Probably. 

Best not think about it.

By the time they reached their destination in the old docklands, the train had been empty apart from them for twenty minutes. Each stop had become more dated, the paint chipped and nicked, the colors old. The lighting was dim, the stairs that much more narrow, the overpasses well hidden behind chain link fencing. The 'psychic energy' was, as Cat would say, depressed and full of ghosts. John was not one to follow psychic anything, although Mystic Meg was always a lark, but he had to admit his own gut feelings had always served him well and more and more he was becoming increasingly creeped out.

"Do you know where we're going?" John asked, following Sherlock onto the platform. The sign on the wall read 'Terminus'. Below it was a Tube map and information on fares and how to pay if no conductor was available. Nothing unusual, except someone had scrawled 'THE END, MY FRIEND' across the center of the poster; the dot above the i a dark brown-black smudge from a lit cigarette, or something equally disgusting. Overhead, a recorded voice crackled something unintelligible on the Tannoy.

"Of course I do, John. A tip off from my homeless network."

"Shouldn't that be your 'Holmesless' network?"

Sherlock sent him a withering glance, then said, "More reliable than Mycroft's CCTV, and certainly more honest than Tom Quinn's."

"You really don't like him," John mused, looking both ways across the road before catching up to Sherlock. "Is it because he's tall and dark haired with pretty blue eyes?"

"Fancy him, do you?"

Taken aback by the vehemence in Sherlock's tone, John looked towards him, if not exactly at his face, and said, "No, no. Just making conversation."

"Well then, don't."

John gave a single nod. Guess that was a bit of the behavior Mr. Holmes had mentioned in his conversation with the Major. Or at least the very little bit John remembered before completely losing all semblance of memory from that particular panic attack. So far Sherlock had not been any more or less Alpha than any others John had known. Okay, yeah, a bit obsessive and a right prat, but there was no back slapping people in jocularity, no friendly banter about what Omegas were like and _damn_ once you got them going everything was covered in slick. No David Brent-like behavior, in short.

Traffic was light when they reached the road, mostly boy racers with blue spotlights driving down side streets in a riot of burning rubber and thumping bass lines. Many of the houses were dark, even though it was only 8-ish. A few had signs of life, moving lights from tvs, dogs barking, the occasional shout of excitement over whatever football match was on.

Some minutes later Sherlock led the way to a small shopping district. It contained the kind of stores John would expect; a SPAR with a single customer just visible through the front door, a chippie, a chemist with metal shutters drawn and locked, a solicitor's office with a red and white CLOSED sign hung in the window. The only place hopping on the night was the pub, tucked on the corner by a bus stop and the main road. More raucous noise erupted from the interior every time a smoker ventured out to puff on their cancer sticks. They turned their backs to John and Sherlock, content to chat with one another. 

The door to the chippie was closed and well fogged, giving John a bit of relief. The chance of anyone seeing him from that long ago visit with Mickey were slim to none, yet even so, he had a bad feeling about the whole thing. He was carrying a gun without a license, and if caught, he would be in big trouble.

So when Sherlock picked the lock on the glass door of the legal aid office, right in plain view of the the streetlight directly behind them, John waited until he had cracked the code on the electronic alarm before hissing, "What are we doing in here? We could go to prison!"

Sherlock took something out of his pocket and the dim room was speared by a shaft of pure white light, highlighting the three seats in front of the window, the secretary's desk, some kind of potted ivy trailing off the corner. "We can't see by the streetlight, John. Keep an eye out if it makes you feel better."

Even though he could feel it digging into the base of his spine, John reached around and felt for his gun anyway. Stupid to be reassured that it was still there, because of course it was. He would have noticed if anyone had stolen it. He took it in hand and, deliberately widening his eyes to help them adjust faster, moved to the closed door next to the desk. Taking the handle gently, he eased it up and down, because old habits died very hard, making sure the click of the latch releasing was silent. He opened the door quickly, giving it a swift visual sweep. 

Light appeared over his shoulder and danced over the windowless interior. The usual was there; old-fashioned, two drawer filing cabinets, an executive desk and chair, two swivel chairs for clients, a computer monitor, the tower under the desk humming obnoxiously before quieting down. Moving John out of the way with a light touch on his shoulder, Sherlock swanned to the desk and power up the computer again. John eyed the front door. "You sure that's safe? What if somebody walks by?"

"That's what you're here for, John. In answer to the question you really want answered, this is Ben Sullivan's office," the light of the screen highlighted the glee in Sherlock's face as he typed. "Ben Sullivan is Davis Poole's cousin, and a friend of Thaddeus Sholto. He handles the less savory parts of Thaddeus' private business ventures. A very unpleasant fellow you married, John."

"Tell me about it," huffed John. He looked towards the front door - no shadows, no movement. "How do you know he's related to Davis Poole?"

"Picture on the wall next to you."

Leaning forward a little bit, he spied the photo Sherlock had referred to. Ah, yes. A framed newspaper cutout of two men shaking hands. One blond head, one dark, with suits to match. The headline underneath read CONSERVATIVES GAIN FOOTHOLD IN DOCKLANDS EAST; Mr. Davis Poole congratulates Mr. Benjamin Sullivan upon the opening of his office. "Is this going to take much longer?"

Sherlock tapped away at the keyboard, then shook his head in frustration. "There's nothing here."

"How can you tell? Do you even know what you're looking for?"

"An encrypted file with your name on it."

John swung back to look at Sherlock at that. "What?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Alternatively, I could be searching for files related to Entry Clearance."

"I don't understand what Thaddeus has to do with all of this," John said testily. He was growing a little tired of being kept in the dark. He was in England now, not Afghanistan, this was definitely _not_ a Need to Know situation. 

"Think about it," answered Sherlock, thrown into darkness as he turned off the monitor. "As a Foreign Office Civil Servant posted overseas specifically to give the deserving Visa clearance into Great Britain, he's the man you see if you want to get yourself or your family abroad. It doesn't matter to what country he goes, someone will always want to leave it by any means possible. No doubt he's been posted elsewhere in Europe."

"So?" John closed the door behind Sherlock, followed him to peer out of the front door. 

"It also works in the reverse," Sherlock said, resetting the alarm. He pressed something and an LED turned bright green. He opened the door and stepped outside, John behind him. They strolled away, not looking in any direction apart from directly ahead. "Let's say Thaddeus is involved in human trafficking."

 _What?_ John stared at Sherlock, agog at the very thought. Stepping off the kerb to cross the car park, he stumbled on a bit of broken brick and fell against Sherlock, nearly twisting his ankle. Way to make an impression, Watson. He recovered, patting his back to see if the gun had shifted. "You think that's what he's doing?"

"I'm sure of it. He has plenty of money in his bank accounts, more than what his rank legitimately earns, as does Major Sholto, but Thaddeus does not receive an allowance. This begs the question - where is he getting the money from?"

Sherlock led John around a car with smashed windows and back onto the pavement. They passed through a set of yellow bollards in the middle of two end-row terraces. The bollards blocked what had been a road, and now appeared to be a broad footpath leading into semi-darkness. The road soon narrowed into a tarmac path which appeared to lead straight into fields. Or so John assumed. It was the kind of place popular with teens and drug dealers, judging by the broken alcopop and cider bottles glinting in the weeds. John sidestepped a used condom and hoped he could avoid all the other nastiness he just knew he was missing in the poor light. Like that, see, the cold roseate glow of the sodium streetlights that remained highlighted the used needles littering the ground. And even those working lights were few, the rest having been shot with paint guns, broken, or otherwise just not working. All in a all, it was a desolate, unloved place to gather with friends. Or enemies. There was old blood staining the macadam, black-maroon droplets and a wide smear that led off into the grass. John was glad he had company, even if it was Sherlock rather than proper back up.

As they walked along, John realised Sherlock was side-eyeing him from time to time. "What?"

"You're not bothered, being out here."

"Well, I don't know what I'm doing and I don't know where I'm going, but you do, surely that counts for something," answered John, bemused by the absolute truth of his statement. 

"I…you didn't like going for tea, yesterday. What's changed?"

John shrugged. The dark, the cold, the unknown. It was familiar and exciting and even though this was England, he was certain he had the advantage.

"Human trafficking," continued Sherlock. "The scourge of the modern world, humanity making money off of itself in the worse way possible."

John hmm'd. He was a little surprised at the vehemence in Sherlock's tone. 

"It would be hard to do as an Entry Clearance Officer, that's what most people think. They think, how could an official stamp so many passports? How could no one notice that one man cleared a few hundred people? Therein lies the trick. Thaddeus _doesn't_ give hundreds of visas. He give out one here, another there. He gives them to HGV drivers, cargo masters, anyone involved in transport."

"Hardly a ticket to the Costa del Crime," commented John.

"This would be true for your average idiot, but he'll have known the best people to pick. Indeed, I'm sure he had advisers on that matter, a few from each country, trusted associates."

They walked on, the crunch of glass shards and gravel loud above night birds, train wheels on track, and the faint sounds of the city nearby. Eventually an old train station and outbuildings came into view. 

"It occurred to me, where can you bring many people and disperse them quietly? Country people are too nosy. They ask questions, they want to be friendly - "

Privately John thought Sherlock really needed to get out of the city more often if he really thought Country folk were easy marks.

" - while city people will notice and not say a word. Simple observation would have solved this months, years ago."

At least he was softly spoken during his rant, John gave him credit for that. He was only half-listening, anyway. He kept his attention on the buildings ahead. Two of the sheds were closed and locked, he could see the padlocks on the doors. The train tracks were visible, straight, one pair matte dark lines amidst the bed of coke and chunks of old coal while the other was shiny from daily use. There were point levers here and there for switching the trains from one track to another. John was fairly sure modern trains used a different mechanism to switch tracks, and looking at the uncut weeds on the unused track, this was not a station that saw frequent use with both lines. On the other hand, it looked to have been fairly big at one earlier point in its lifetime.

"What?" asked Sherlock, looking down at John with a furrowed brow.

John abruptly realized he was holding Sherlock's wrist in a tight grip, the gun in his other hand.

"John?"

"Quiet," he whispered, listening hard and still keeping hold of Sherlock. There was something - what? He could feel Sherlock itching to know why had they stopped, just out of reach of the outside lights of the station. They were close to the platform now, close enough that he could read the signs on the walls, they read BRIDGE END. He pulled Sherlock across the tracks to the side of the nearest building, a narrow two storey red brick shed. He pushed Sherlock towards the shadows of the door, then peered around the corner. Once more he kept his eyes as wide as he could, straining to find what had made him stop short. 

The station platform was in front and a little ahead of them, eight, maybe ten metres. The platform and the station were elevated a fair bit from the ground. The station was lit poorly, the bulbs in the lamps old fashioned incandescents instead of flourescents, giving off very yellow, very dim light. No shadows darkened the windows, which were blocked for outside view from the inside. Not a popular place, then. Having said that, John could see a sliver of light from underneath the front door.

"This line stops running at eight seventeen," Sherlock said in a low voice. "The inside lights should be off and the doors locked."

"Why were we coming here?"

"Because it's perfect. Close enough to the city center to disburse cargo to the appropriate places without being seen. All you need is a ship. You can park a truck or leave containers on the docs without fear of being ticketed. There are few CCTV cameras here, and I'll wager the ones inside the station are either on a loop or they have an inside man."

Sherlock paused, and in the silence John heard a faint noise, like the physical representation of a bug crawling on your skin; no way to know what it was, it just tickled at the edge of your awareness _until_. John opened his mouth to quiet the roar of his breathing in order to hear better - ah! There it was. He stared in the direction he thought the noise was coming from and yes, two men dressed in yellow high visibility jackets, employees walking in the gravel, chatting. "Network Rail," he muttered, frowning because it was such a stupid thing to say. The expected retort from Sherlock did not come, however.

"No," Sherlock shifted a little behind John. "Wrong kind of shoes. Nobody wears brogues on an industrial site."

Now that the men were walking up the incline at the end of the platform, John could see that Sherlock was right. Brogues instead of steel-toed workboots. Hunh. Maybe they had found their human traffickers after all. But that still begged the question: what did any of this have to do with Mr. Holmes? Before he had a chance to do more than think about it, the men stopped on the platform and faced outwards. One had a large and very powerful torch that he turned on, swinging it quickly from side to side. John pressed back against the brick, reaching out to keep Sherlock from making a fool of himself.

But Sherlock was no longer there. "Shit! Sherlock!" John hissed, hoping the mad bastard was still keeping out of sight. He glanced back at the platform, only to see the entry door swinging shut, the two men nowhere in sight. Alright. John took a couple of steps to look around the other corner of the building. Still no Sherlock.

 _Great_.

John slipped along the side of the building to see if Sherlock was at the back - again, no. Glancing back at the station movement caught his eye; Sherlock motioned at him with one gloved hand. John stared at him, dumbfounded. At that moment Sherlock was a photographer's dream, starkly pale under the sickly light, striking in shades of black and a smidgeon of blue at the throat. Impossibly, their eyes met, and John found himself running across both tracks and up the ramp, side-stepping at the last minute to join Sherlock at the end of the building.

"Have you found a way inside?" asked John very quietly. Before Sherlock could answer, he crept to the other side and made sure neither man had simply gone through the station to what turned out to be a small, empty car park.

Sherlock was holding out his phone when John returned. A timer was on the screen, counting down from ninety-four seconds. Ninety-three. 

Whatever was going to happen at the last second, John wanted to be prepared. He rocked on his heels, rolled his head on his neck, took a few deep breaths. Then, he waited.

Ten - He checked the gun; loaded and ready. 

Seven - Sherlock rounded the corner and strode towards the door.

Three - the outside lights went out.

One - John flattened himself beside the door, mirroring Sherlock. The metal frame of the timetable dug into his shoulder blade through his jacket and then the door opened and John put his hands on a man and swung him round into the side of the building. He made like the movies and clipped the back of the man's head with the butt of the gun. A second was all it took to check the man was going to stay down, and then John was cursing under his breath, fear aiding his leap through the door in search of Sherlock. Because of course the git had gone through first.

John took in the scene in disbelief. The overhead fluorescents were on, buzzing and ticking and in the back corner, blinking. The interior was a horrifying clash between Victorian and Modernist '80s, all sharp angles and disturbingly bright colors amidst classic, aesthetically pleasing ironwork painted cream and British Racing Green. The group of people huddled on the floor shot anxious glances between himself and Sherlock, who was not only very much alive and well, but smug with satisfaction. Sherlock was firmly controlling their other Network Rail suspect by keeping both the man's arms behind his back. Yeah, John knew better than to think only one arm would do, and he was glad to see that Sherlock knew at least that much about security procedures. He had assumed that as the soldier, he would be the one to know how that sort of thing worked. Well, something to talk about when they returned home.

With a nod to make sure Sherlock was alright, John went out and dragged the other worker inside. He checked, yup, still breathing. John tied the man up using his own Network Rail belt, removing a phone from his pocket in the process. He stood, made his way to Sherlock, who had seated his now bound worker in a chair, placing another chair across from him but out of reach of his feet. 

Sherlock jerked his head at John. "This is John. He's an Army doctor, a trauma surgeon. He's very good at putting people together. He's even better at taking them apart."

The worker checked out John, plainly finding him lacking, for he returned his gaze to Sherlock, as if to say, So what?

"I am not a doctor," said Sherlock. He crossed his legs and clasped his hands in his lap, sat at an angle equally dismissive. "However, I am not above doing whatever I want to get what I need."

"I'm just a driver," said the man. "I don't know anything."

"You don't have to know the details, only the name of your contact."

"What do I get out of it?"

Sherlock shook his head, the slightest smile on his lips. "You're not making any deal. You make a deal and they'll find out, they'll know you said something. But tell me everything and no one will ever know, you get arrested and released as normal and come up a saint. Win-win."

"Nah," said the man, shaking his head confidently. "Not worth it."

John let out the breath he had been holding. Sherlock was so elegant in his dramatic coat and leather gloves. So dangerous, or at least he would be if John thought he was actually capable of doing what he said. On the other hand, he was not wrong about John. 

At all.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a ripple of movement, one of the twenty to thirty people on the floor shifting. No surprise, the station was old and drafty, the nearness to the river making itself known in a chill breeze that wafted in every now and again. At least the air was fresh, yet unfortunately it also blew away all the body heat that could accumulate and warm the place up a bit, clear out the deeply musky,unpleasantly musty odor of the place.

They looked like all the economic refugees he had seen in his travels, courtesy of Her Majesty. Thin, haggard, a mix of ages and ethnicities, all beaten down in the constant search for a little security. There was a disturbance, heads turning, whispered conversation, then stillness once again. John turned his attention back to Sherlock.

"Would it be worth it to your family? By the hair on your trousers you have several pets, at least one of which is an Angora rabbit, white. Two Shelties, a child under one year of age, three, no, four other children ranging from sixteen months to five years. Wife older than yourself - oh! A younger mistress, hence the children as you don't have any with your wife.

"You make it sound easy," said the man in the chair, no longer smiling as he looked intently at Sherlock. "If you know all that, you know it isn't easy."

Sherlock shrugged. "It is easy. Also a limited time offer. You have four minutes left to decide."

The man snorted. "Four minutes? Then what? You gonna kill me?"

"No, I always leave that to the professionals. Colleagues of mine will come and take you away to the depths of, well, wherever."

"Doesn't sound so bad."

Even John could hear the fear in that one.

"No, if it were only you, it wouldn't be. There is your family to consider, the one in Szeged, not the one in Pecs…or perhaps you're willing to sacrifice the wife for the mistress? A risky game to play."

John heard a groan and whipped back to the crowd. People were trying to unobtrusively edge away from someone in the middle. A small, slim man in a bulky tan jacket leaned forward, then to one side. The hat he wore fell off, revealing shining blue-black hair pulled into a ponytail at the back. He clutched his belly, groaned, and rocked back up, grimacing in pain.

John said, "Sherlock, we need an ambulance."

"I sent a text - "

" _Now!"_ John thundered, already moving, the crowd scrambling out of his way. He was careful not to step into the pool of blood on the floor. John could tell from the color and tackiness under his knees that the man had been bleeding for some hours. "Alright love, let me take a look," he murmured. The man looked at John with beautiful, wide brown eyes that were filled with desperation and pain. 

Although he already had his suspicions, John carefully pulled up the bottom of the jacket, wincing at the blood that had soaked not only the man's too-large trousers, rolled up into fat cuffs at his unbelievably fragile ankles, but into the jacket as well as the hunter green jumper he wore underneath. The smell of iron, the whiff of urine, the perspiration on his forehead despite the raging heat under his skin, the exhaustion radiating from him - oh, John had a bad feeling. "Sherlock!"

"Already on the way."

"Damn. Okay," John rubbed the man's shoulder. _Christ_ , he could feel the bones through sweater and jacket. The poor sod must have been terribly thirsty from the blood loss, yet there was nothing John could do about that.

"I'm a doctor," he said, pushing up his own sleeve to reveal his watch before taking the man's wrist. He made no reply, which left John to distractedly run through his small list of Desperanto. "Medicins, medico, tabiib, Dr. Watson, John Watson. What's your name? What should I call you? Comment vous appellez-vous? Je m'appelle Jean Watson."

The pulse was far too fast - hell, he was going to have to sit here and watch him bleed out if that _fucking_ ambulance was took much longer. 

His patient grabbed his hand and squeezed, hard. He moaned, face twisted in agony. Sucking in a great breath afterward, he said, voice cracking, "Awlad? Al-awlad?" And then, at John's look of incomprehension, "Chav?"

For a second he thought the man was talking about British teenagers. What on earth -

The man licked his lips, dragged John's hand to his stomach. "Farzand? Kodak?"

John stared at him. Oh _shit_. He rested his hand on the lump of the man's belly very, very gently. "Nemidanam."

The man turned away, but not before John caught the anguish in his expression. The desperation he must have felt to leave home in his condition - John shook his head. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get you over on your side," he nudged until the man got the idea, lying down and rolling onto his left side. Chances were pretty nil the foetus would make it. Nonetheless, John had seen miracles before. The human body was capable of much, given the right opportunity. And this was another good reason to keep up with the Pashto and work on the Farsi.

Voices and footsteps sounded behind him, ah, paramedics and police. The paramedics took over while he recited what he had done, what he suspected the problem was. Following them to the ambulance, he did his best to interpret for the man in half-remembered Pashto. The paramedics left John alone at his insistence after slinging a bright orange blanket around his shoulders, periodically looking at him with concern even as they continued to treat their new patient. It was only when the ambulance was driving away that he remembered he had actually arrived with someone. He wandered through the station twice before concluding that Sherlock was gone. 

He stood on the platform, looking out into the light-brightened darkness, tired and deeply annoyed. The assumed illegals were being herded into Police vans, the ambulance was whoop-whooping back to the main road, and an Asian man was at the other end of the platform, waving his hand and calling, "Dr. Watson! Over here!"

A passing PC stopped and spoke to the man, who smiled and retrieved a wallet from his jacket pocket, showed what John presumed was the appropriate identification. The smile fell from his face as the PC nodded and walked away. "Dr. Watson, would you come with me, please?"

Intrigued, John headed in his direction, tossing his blanket on the lone bench for any passenger sorry enough to have to await their train. The blanket, despite its day-glo color, hid the godawful graffiti, and that was saying something. "Yes?"

"Carl Fontenau, Carl with a K. Cassie Peters sent me for you."

"Oh, right. How did she know I was here?"

Fontenau gestured towards the car park. "Mr. Holmes - Sherlock - called. Gave us all the details. Luckily I was close by," He led the way behind the station, where the nearest car flashed its head lights, clunked the doors unlocked. "We'll stop at Baker Street on the way, get you a change of clothes. You'll have to make it quick, we've got to get back to Five before my boss throws Sherlock out of Thames House," he slipped into the driver's seat and glanced at John. "And now that we're in private, call me Zaf."

At John's questioning look, Zaf/Karl shook his head and continued. "Karl was my step-dad's name. Never have liked it."

By the time they reached Thames House, an hour later, John was bone weary. It had been years since he had last been required to do this sort of all night, all action with lots of waiting kind of job. The creature comforts of a super quick shower and change of clothing, two biscuits from the covered plate Mrs. Hudson had left on the table, plus a slurp of cold, over mashed tea were not up to the task of replacing sleep, not by any means. At least the discomfort of the gun against his back was gone, as it was unsafely stored back in its box.

Even being in the seat of Spookdom was not enough to keep him from yawning intermittently. 

"Here we go," said Zaf, pulling open one half of a double door onto a corridor that ended in, well, John was greatly reminded of the cylinders from the Stonehenge set in _This is Spinal Tap!_ These ones were also clear, lit with cool, white-blue light by more fluorescents. The cylinder door swooshed open at Zaf's press of a button on the wall, swooshed closed behind him. A couple of seconds inside(he half expected a sound effect out of Star Trek) and then the front half opened and he stepped into the interior of Five. It was very modern, but far less hectic than he had ever imagined. The lighting was somewhat dim, the dark maroon wall panels greedily sucking up the excess. There were computers on nearly every desk, phones ringing, the scent of coffee and stale takeaway flavouring the air.

"John, glad you could make it."

John turned, saw Cassie Peters approaching him with a smile, one that even appeared genuine. She carried a folder tightly against her chest. "Come on, Sherlock's in the conference room."

Zaf did not join them, though he clapped a friendly hand on John's shoulder before walking off to speak to the young blonde woman seated at one of the desks. 

As with the open office area, the conference room was modern and dim, but in colors of pale blue and dove grey. A large flat screen tv dominated the wall at the end of the oval table. John was glad to see Sherlock, even if the reverse did not appear to be true.

"Ah, Dr. Watson. Good of you to join us," said Mr. Pearce, pouring a glass of water and pushing it towards John. "I was just telling Sherlock that under no circumstances would he be allowed to interview Simon Kiss or Adrian Novak. He's already done enough as it is."

John thought that was rather ominous. He took a sip of water to delay having to speak. 

"Fine," said Sherlock. "Novak's already told me what I need to know - "

John managed not to raise an eyebrow. If that were the case, why did Sherlock want to interview them? Even genius had its limits, he supposed.

"We're familiar with them," interrupted Mr. Pearce. He paused to take a sip of water. "Novak's passed us information before, mostly about Omega trafficking."

"We've heard of Kiss," said Cassie, looking from Mr. Pearce to Sherlock. She leaned forward earnestly. "His name has cropped up dozens of times, but we've never had the opportunity to speak to him. We have you to thank for that."

"He's the one you want, Sherlock. He's higher up in the organization, knows the layout and who's going where. Not only that, as a British citizen he's subject to our laws ."

Sherlock looked nonplussed. "And?"

"We persuaded him to be more honest than he has been."

What form of _persuasion_ might that have been, John wondered. While he was not in favor of that sort of persuasion, he knew most people were squeamish about that sort of thing. 

Mr. Pearce looked at Cassie, who spun the folder around to present it to Sherlock. He flipped it open and began to scan the top sheet of paper. "Names, dates, times," she said. "You'll find the most relevant names at the bottom," This last with a sorrowful look at John.

Sherlock said nothing, merely slid the folder to John. John scanned the page as well - an astonishing amount of information, given Five had only had the two men for what, an hour, tops? He shook his head as both Thaddeus and the Major's names cropped up. Unreal. There were more names, none of which he recognised. How - "How do you know this is for real? He could have said anyone's names."

Mr. Pearce raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "I understand you are not in the Security Services, Dr. Watson, but this is not information come by lightly. Unless of course you can give me a reason for their names to _not_ be on here, this is all genuine information."

That was impossible. John was hardly privy to what Thaddeus and the Major did outside of the house. He was barely cognizant of what they did _inside_ the house.

"We've been poring over their finances, your ex-husband's finances," Cassie ducked her head towards John. "And we know he has given large amounts of money to Davis Poole, who in turn has given much financial support to both Virginia Arthur and Christopher Carr. Now here's where it gets uncomfortable; Arthur is the junior Minister for Defence, and Carr works for the Foreign Office."

"Surely they can't be that stupid," John exclaimed, glancing at Sherlock. "I mean, come on, this is a trail of goodies you could light with a match and watch the whole thing blow up! Isn't it a little obvious?"

"Everyone leaves a mark, Dr. Watson," answered Mr. Pearce. "No matter how deep you hide it, it's there, waiting to be found."

John did not find his answer satisfying in the least. It all seemed so easy. Ridiculously easy. If this Simon Kiss were a big muckety-muck, surely he would know better than to spill the proverbial beans at the merest provocation. After all, he was involved in human trafficking, which was merely an offshoot of the far more dangerous drug running, right? He pursed his lips, unable to parse what Mr. Pearce said. The whole thing was too fragmented. 

"Try to accept it and move on, Dr. Watson. Ruth, please continue."

Cassie - Ruth - nodded, managing not to look at John quite badly. Well he had certainly fallen for that like a mug. He listened to them rattle on and argue, feeling incapable of doing anything other than propping his eyelids open with toothpicks. Coffee came, to which he did not help himself, and pastries,to which he most definitely did help himself.

Something touched his shoulder and John startled awake, instantly flushing with embarrassment as he realized he had fallen into a light doze. He really, really, _really_ hoped no snoring was involved. Cassie - _Ruth_ \- was already through the door, Sherlock following, Mr. Pearce waiting for John to haul his arse up and out of the chair. He did so, wondering what he had missed. 

Ruth escorted them outside, where John discovered that dawn had actually not arisen. He looked at his watch; it was nearly three in the morning. Sherlock hailed a passing taxi. Because of course he could. John shook his head, too tired to be anything but amused.

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to tell you earlier," said Ruth, smiling ruefully. 

"Hm? Oh, about your name?" John shrugged. "You're Security Services, comes with the job."

"Maybe so, but I don't like to lie to nice people."

"He's not all that nice," called Sherlock, voice muffled as he got in the cab.

John shared a look of commiseration with Ruth, as if to say, See what I put up with? Mr. Pearce seemed to have the same effect on her as Sherlock did on him, though presumably without the hormonal rush to go with it. He said, "Good night, Cassie Ruth Peters."

"Good night, John Watson," she answered, wrapping her cream sweater more tightly around herself.

"Get back inside, you'll catch your death out here," he said, turning to climb into the cab.

Sherlock reached behind John and slammed the door shut, sitting back in his seat with a baleful glare. "Are you done flirting yet?"

John pulled the seatbelt over his shoulder and clicked it into place. "Flirting? Hardly. That's the second time you've accused me of that, by the way. I was just being friendly, nothing wrong with that."

Lips curled in disdain, Sherlock looked out the window to watch Ruth return to Five's inner sanctum. John did too, because she was a pretty woman with a nice bum. He lost sight of her as the cab pulled away, and let himself relax for the ride home. 

What an unbelievable day and night. Coffee with MI5, a little breaking and entering, a bit of interrogation, a chance to practice some medicine (albeit the kind anyone could do if they but paid attention), a briefing he still found hard to believe. Which reminded him - "That bloke should make it through the night. Slim chance the foetus will, though. Think he'll get compassionate leave to stay in the country?"

Sherlock swayed into John as the taxi took a corner too fast. "Why do you care?"

John shrugged one shoulder. "I like to know what happens to my patients."

The cab rolled to a stop as the light ahead turned red. A nearby streetlight cast slanted light through the window onto Sherlock's face. With his eyebrows very slightly drawn, he looked like a work of art, like Rodin's The Thinker.

After a pause, Sherlock said, "I'm sure Five will arrange something if it's that important to you."

John nodded, stuffing his surprise back down. He forced himself to casually spot something of interest out his own window, yes, there, like those porcelain antiques next to the Betty Boop poster in the storefront of RETRO. What, if it was important to _him_? Why should his opinion matter more than anyone else? He knew nothing about immigration policy - or maybe that was the point? Trying to see if he would - would - would what, exactly? Contact Thaddeus and ask him for a favor? He huffed a laugh to himself. Because that was likely to happen. More importantly, why did it matter to _Sherlock_ , how John felt about a patient? Having said that, Sherlock did appear to notice who John noticed. Which was interesting. For Sherlock cultivated an 'I don't care' attitude that perhaps was not precisely what it appeared to be on the surface. Definitely interesting.

Ah, Baker Street. John could already imagine the feel of his sheets next to his skin. His bed was going to feel like a cloud when he finally clambered into it. "What's next on our agenda?"

"Sleep. I want you well rested for tomorrow."

"Why, is it going to be another action packed day?"

Sherlock gazed at him, his eyes glittering in the dark interior of the taxi. "We're going to Brighton."

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo...this was actually written two weeks ago. I had planned on getting it betaed and posted before the start of my vacation, and then my vacation descended into a nightmare of chronic pain, panic attacks, poor sleep, eye infections, severe back pain, heart palpitations, depression, and migraines.
> 
> And then the ladyparts decided to rebel.
> 
> Writing was not happening, so I decided to wait until I was better. Which I am. And it's a Monday, hence the posting.
> 
> I'm a thousand words into the next part - things are about to get really interesting! I foresee two more parts and then this story should be complete. Well, this part of it, anyway.


End file.
